“I dare say,” replied Neale.  “But the U. P. R. did not start that way, and never would finish that way.”

“Well, you’ll have your troubles,” declared Coffee.  “Troubles! ...  Do you imagine I’m going to think of myself?” retorted Neale.  These fellows were beginning to get on his nerves.  Coffee grew sullen, Blake shifted uneasily from foot to foot, Colohan beamed upon Neale.  “Come on with them orders,” he said.

“Right! ...  Send men up on the hills to cut and trim trees for piles and beams. ...  Find a way or make one for horses to snake down these timbers.  Haul that pile-driver down to the river and set it up. ...  Have the engineer start up steam and try out. ...  Look the blacksmith shop over to see if there’s iron enough.  If not, telegraph Benton for more—­for whatever you want—­and send wagons back to the end of the rails. ...  That’s all for this time, Colohan.”

“All right, chief,” replied the boss, and he saluted.  Then he turned sneeringly to Blake and Coffee.  “Did you hear them orders?  I’m not takin’ none from you again.  They’re from the chief.”

Colohan’s manner or tone or the word chief amazed Coffee.  He looked nasty.

“Go on and work, then, you big Irish Paddy,” he said, violently.  “Your chief-blarney doesn’t fool us.  You’re only working to get on the right side of your new boss. ...  Let me tell you—­you’re in this Number Ten deal as deep—­as deep as we are.”

It had developed that there was hatred between these men.  Colohan’s face turned fiery red, and, looming over Coffee, he looked the quick-tempered and dangerous nature of his class.  “Coffee, I’m sayin’ this to your face right now.  I ain’t deep in this Number Ten deal. ...  I obeyed orders—­an’ damn strange ones, some of them.”

Neale intervened and perhaps prevented a clash.  “Don’t quarrel, men.  Sure there’s bound to be a little friction for a day or so.  But we’ll soon get to working.”

Colohan strode away without another word.  His brawny shoulders were expressive of a doubt.

“Get me my plans for Number Ten construction,” said Neale, pleasantly, for he meant to do his share at making the best of it.

Blake brought the plans and spread them out on the table.

“Will you both go over them with me?” inquired Neale.

“What’s the use?” returned Coffee, disgustedly.  “Neale, you’re thick-headed.”

“Yes, I guess so,” rejoined Neale, constrainedly.  “That’s why General Lodge sent me up here—­over your clear heads.”

No retort was forthcoming from the two disgruntled engineers.  Neale went into the tent and drew a seat up to the table.  He wanted to be alone—­to study his plans—­to think about the whole matter.  He found his old figures and drawings as absorbing as a good story; still, there came breaks in his attention.  Blake walked into the tent several times, as if to speak, and each time he retired silently.  Again, some messenger brought a telegram to one of the engineers outside, and it must have caused the whispered colloquy that followed.  Finally they went away, and Neale, getting to work in earnest, was not disturbed until called for supper.